


Until They Do

by lq_traintracks (lumosed_quill), traintracks



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Blow Jobs, Chan, Frottage, M/M, Masturbation, floo sex
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-09-17
Updated: 2013-09-17
Packaged: 2018-01-07 03:06:25
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Underage
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,021
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1114744
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/lumosed_quill/pseuds/lq_traintracks, https://archiveofourown.org/users/traintracks/pseuds/traintracks
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sirius and Harry try to keep things platonic over the floo...and fail.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Until They Do

**Author's Note:**

> Written for Daily Deviant's theme of: Floo Sex

 

Whenever they floo, Harry and Sirius spend a lot of time not talking about what happened in the cave.

Harry's back against the wall. Sirius' fast breath against his neck. His hips rhythmically thrusting. Harry's heart wanting to pound out of his chest. No words exchanged between them...

They spend a lot of time not talking about what happened late at night in Sirius' bedroom at Grimmauld Place before Harry went back to Hogwarts.

The multiple privacy charms up for secrecy. Harry's hands gripping the headboard. Sirius' mouth down between Harry's legs. Harry's toes curling. His back arching hard in the dark.

They talk a lot about the possibility of war. They talk about Umbridge (Sirius wants her dead). They talk about loneliness. And that's as close as they get. Because loneliness is why they do it. Loneliness and heat and craving. They do it because they're kin -- because they know one another's hearts. Because even when they first met, something explosive and lurid united them.

They shouldn't be talking by floo at all. It's too dangerous, but they can't help it. They can't stop. Even though they don't talk about the cave; they don't talk about what happened in Sirius' bed; they don't talk about any of it.

The ache of not touching is almost an aphrodisiac. Harry hears Sirius' voice, and he's there. He can't help but remember, and his cock gets hard from next to nothing. He's used himself raw on the memories.

One minute hugging, and then Sirius moving -- just barely -- and grunting and then Harry coming in his pants and Sirius coming, too, shuddering a long breath against Harry's ear.

Sirius strokes one off every night imagining the hug of Harry's legs around his head, the way he gasped, "Please... Please, Sirius..." as he came.

The ambrosial taste of it.

They meet in the floo, and they don't talk about it.

They are strategists, warriors, compatriots. They are, for those moments, not lost. No one is telling Harry he is too young. No one is telling Sirius to sit tight. They plan and fight whole battles in whispers.

But Harry wants nothing more than to pull Sirius through the flames -- to lay beneath him, feel the soft breath of guilty words, his godfather's beard scraping along his neck.

Sirius wants nothing more than to hold him. He doesn't have to come. He just wants Harry's warm body, the way he shivers, the way he wants it.

It's been weeks. And they never talk about it. The embers glow tangerine bright and then ebb. The smoke rises serpentine and hypnotic. Harry and Sirius never talk about it.

Until they do.

"I miss you," Harry breaks finally.

Sirius had thought he would be the one to weaken first. Harry is the strong one, and Sirius knows it.

"I'm always here," he answers. Even though it's not true. It's as true as he can make it.

Harry reaches out a hand and touches the cool flames, wanting to ignite.

"Harry," Sirius breathes, closing his eyes as though he can feel the fingers on his face.

Harry pops the button on his denims. "Watch me," he says. He's braver now than he's ever been. He's a teacher now. He's a fighter. He's faced Voldemort alone -- utterly alone. He's tired of holding back when in every other part of his life so much is asked of him. He wants this. He wants this.

Sirius opens his eyes and watches the tell-tale movement of Harry's jerking forearm. Harry's eyes darken. A tendon stands out on his neck, and Sirius yearns to bite him there, to breathe him in, to replace Harry's hand -- too young, too fast, too goal-driven -- with his own.

Harry kneels so that Sirius can see it -- his eager cock. He remembers the feel of Sirius' wet lips, his persistent tongue, sliding deeper into his welcoming mouth. Harry's every muscle recalls how it felt to spill into that warm, whiskery mouth.

Sirius sighs, and Harry knows he's won. He knows those gentle fingers with their tough knuckles are wrapped around a sturdy, brutish cock. He knows from how Sirius blinks -- lethargic, almost drugged -- that he's doing it. Harry coaxes a bead of pre-come from the tip of his own prick. Sirius licks his lips, and Harry can very nearly feel it.

He looks around the common room once to make sure he's still alone, and yet the way it's building in his bollocks, he doubts he could stop. His hips undulate against the force of his fist. The slapping sound fills the room -- his soft hitching breaths. He wants to close his eyes on the intensity of it, but he needs to see Sirius there. He needs that connection in lieu of touch.

Sirius knows they have only moments. "Here," he says. "Right here, Harry."

Harry nods and speeds up.

"God..." Sirius breathes, so close. He's never been inside Harry. It's his one virtue, he thinks. It's his one regret. He imagines how it might have been: tight and slow. The ache of waiting for Harry to nod, to whisper, "It's okay." For the boy to unleash Sirius from his own weak efforts at restraint.

Sirius watches Harry through the riot of flames and, instead, remembers what is already real.

They both remember:

Sirius' slow fingers through Harry's sweaty hair, love words and spunk on his breath, laughter that isn't hollow or forced. Two warm bodies cooling in the vast quiet.

Harry gasps hard. His hips buck. He comes into the flames that curl around Sirius' face.

Sirius smiles.

 

Whenever they floo, they're careful not to say the words. The words hurt too much and are too true, and Sirius knows -- even if Harry pretends not to -- that they shouldn't be saying or feeling them at all. Not like this. Not the both of them electrified by sex, still panting, replete.

Not separate.

They love each other the way they should, and they love each other the way they shouldn't. They have what they have. They are resolute, and they don't say it. They don't say it.

...until they do.


End file.
